When oblivion is like a mirror reflecting
the original tortuous forms of everything.
When a river, whips heavily at
the heart of the earth.
I hear a cricket breathing the world in and out
and see a raven picking up the whole autumn.
When images are like a wall,
and words, tend to be the kingdom of snails.
When I started to understand those
sacrificed and their original faith,
also I started to comprehend the Yellow River
and its shadow left in the sky.
Now, borrowing a metaphor that formalists are best at
using: I am barely utilising the dim light on
the morning dew, trying to apprehend
the purpose of the time we live in.
and the purpose is: unconditional redemption.
We feel hopeless, but it doesn’t mean
we have nothing to love in this life, but for refusal to
reconciliation
When the enormous northern land
declares to the sky the greatness
and proud of its silence.
When I said doing
I merely referred to living water, which heals
the secrets of a state fully filled its Autumn season.
When I said non-doing sometimes
I meant living water still. It splits the soul
into two:
half of it for this temporary and uncertain life,
another half carries the eternal and definite
truth.
At dusk, from the plosive of a raven
I started to love the world, from within the reflection of
the swirling on water surface, I started to love the Yellow River.
I felt like I was pregnant with words,
pressing my heart and soul harder and harder.
like the thin but earthy smells in the air
and the uninvited sleeplessness at midnight.
Leaves on the tree were overlapping
in the evening breeze. When they separated again,
as if at court, a sentence letter was thrown down by the judge.
As a man being sued by poems, I never really feared.
For I knew very well what was written there:
Love, doesn’t mean peacemaking,
Hatred, doesn’t mean freedom either.
